We all have heroes or mentors that we admire. People that we find exceptional, people that we can go to and tell them what exactly is ailing us in hope that they will provide us with a solution or cure. In other words, people that are actually better than us. I picked up at the bookstore Richard Brookhiser’s Right Time, Right Place: Coming of Age with William F. Buckley Jr. and the Conservative Movement. A book, as the flap said, is about Mr. Brookhiser’s relationship with William F. Buckley, Jr. and the relationship’s ups and downs. Mr. Brookhiser was convinced that he will be the “heir” to the National Review Throne, and apparently Buckley had directly said that Brookhiser was indeed the chosen one. Then, suddenly, Brookhiser was informed that he no longer will be Buckley’s successor. I was convinced that the book will be about a mentor and his protégé, and the difficulty in meeting of the two intellects. It was not. In fact, the book was rather disappointing and misleading.
After reading the first thirty pages, I realized that this book will be about Richard Brookhiser. And not only that, it will be about Richard Brookhiser’s ego. In the Introduction, Mr. Brookhiser writes that he offers us his experiences as “stimulus and guidance.” Unfortunately, as a reader, I did not receive one or the other. Instead, I peered into the psyche of the man that reflected qualities of a jilted lover. Page after page, I found myself wrapped in reader’s frustration. Mr. Brookhiser may try to tell us that he is not angry over the fact that he was not chosen to be the Editor of National Review but the choice of words (especially those describing William F. Buckley, Jr.) reveals a lost man, who never shed youthful arrogance and pride.
Even when he first started to write for NR (at incredibly young age), Brookhiser saw himself as a replacement or some type of reincarnation of Buckley. That was the first mistake. As my very good friend had recently and clearly said: “Buckley is unrepeatable!” Indeed. This trip down the ego lane was quite nauseating, especially coming from an older man. What follows is a series of complaints that deal with parties, sailing, politics, Catholicism (in general and at NR), speechwriting, his own writing voice in relation to NR, his own life decisions in relation to William F. Buckley, Jr. And this is the heart of the matter. Life has been lived in relation to William F. Buckley, Jr. This should never have occurred. Buckley is/was not a god; he was, after all, a mere human being. The question that should come up for Mr. Brookhiser is am I living my life according to who I am called to be (in relation to God) or who I think I might be? It was as if he was conflicted and a captive of his own neurotic and self-loathing techniques (strangely enough, neuroticism and self-loathing are usually characteristics of the American Left).
The portrait of William F. Buckley, Jr. is cold (almost tyrannical), despite the fact that Mr. Brookhiser alerts us at the beginning this will be a portrait of a great man (as his website tells us as well). In Richard Brookhiser’s view, Buckley is not great: rather, he is strange, distant, and most of all, narcissistic. Obviously, I never knew Buckley personally; but even if Buckley did have some of those qualities, is one to write a WHOLE BOOK about it? It was as if Mr. Brookhiser was never able to step in front of Buckley and truly tell him what bothered him. Sadly, the book ends up being a kind of airing of dirty, intellectual laundry, and I am not sure whether this is good for the dignity of William F. Buckley, Jr. or Richard Brookhiser.
Me, me, me—it’s all about me. It isn’t. The book would have been far superior if Mr. Brookhiser had delved deeper into his own bitterness (which he admits throughout the book) and asked what kind of life has he lived thus far? Did his obsession with Buckley take him into the territories of captivity and suffocation? Any obsession usually does. We are not meant to live like that. At the beginning of the book, Richard Brookhiser writes that “finding your own place in the world is a neat trick.” I am not sure he ever did.
After reading the first thirty pages, I realized that this book will be about Richard Brookhiser. And not only that, it will be about Richard Brookhiser’s ego. In the Introduction, Mr. Brookhiser writes that he offers us his experiences as “stimulus and guidance.” Unfortunately, as a reader, I did not receive one or the other. Instead, I peered into the psyche of the man that reflected qualities of a jilted lover. Page after page, I found myself wrapped in reader’s frustration. Mr. Brookhiser may try to tell us that he is not angry over the fact that he was not chosen to be the Editor of National Review but the choice of words (especially those describing William F. Buckley, Jr.) reveals a lost man, who never shed youthful arrogance and pride.
Even when he first started to write for NR (at incredibly young age), Brookhiser saw himself as a replacement or some type of reincarnation of Buckley. That was the first mistake. As my very good friend had recently and clearly said: “Buckley is unrepeatable!” Indeed. This trip down the ego lane was quite nauseating, especially coming from an older man. What follows is a series of complaints that deal with parties, sailing, politics, Catholicism (in general and at NR), speechwriting, his own writing voice in relation to NR, his own life decisions in relation to William F. Buckley, Jr. And this is the heart of the matter. Life has been lived in relation to William F. Buckley, Jr. This should never have occurred. Buckley is/was not a god; he was, after all, a mere human being. The question that should come up for Mr. Brookhiser is am I living my life according to who I am called to be (in relation to God) or who I think I might be? It was as if he was conflicted and a captive of his own neurotic and self-loathing techniques (strangely enough, neuroticism and self-loathing are usually characteristics of the American Left).
The portrait of William F. Buckley, Jr. is cold (almost tyrannical), despite the fact that Mr. Brookhiser alerts us at the beginning this will be a portrait of a great man (as his website tells us as well). In Richard Brookhiser’s view, Buckley is not great: rather, he is strange, distant, and most of all, narcissistic. Obviously, I never knew Buckley personally; but even if Buckley did have some of those qualities, is one to write a WHOLE BOOK about it? It was as if Mr. Brookhiser was never able to step in front of Buckley and truly tell him what bothered him. Sadly, the book ends up being a kind of airing of dirty, intellectual laundry, and I am not sure whether this is good for the dignity of William F. Buckley, Jr. or Richard Brookhiser.
Me, me, me—it’s all about me. It isn’t. The book would have been far superior if Mr. Brookhiser had delved deeper into his own bitterness (which he admits throughout the book) and asked what kind of life has he lived thus far? Did his obsession with Buckley take him into the territories of captivity and suffocation? Any obsession usually does. We are not meant to live like that. At the beginning of the book, Richard Brookhiser writes that “finding your own place in the world is a neat trick.” I am not sure he ever did.
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